


The Simple Gesture

by Kahvi, Roadstergal



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Consent Issues, Dysfunctional Relationships, M/M, Mental Health Issues, PTSD John, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Recreational Drug Use
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-11-29
Updated: 2013-12-30
Packaged: 2018-01-02 23:42:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 10,850
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1063074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Kahvi/pseuds/Kahvi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/Roadstergal/pseuds/Roadstergal
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After what happens in Baskerville, John and Sherlock struggle with the aftermath of Sherlock's actions, and the inevitable changes in their relationship. Some of those changes, however, turn out to be utterly unexpected for both of them... </p><p> </p><p>  <i>"It all seems so reasonable and logical to you - your behavior."</i></p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Written for Let's Write Sherlock's challenge #1: _After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…_

"...which is why, John, you should never trust a doctor. Present company excluded, of course."

"That's your idea of what doctors are like, is it?" John stared out of the window. This case was nagging at the back of his brain, sharp nails dragging gently and agonizingly down the back of it. Sherlock had not stopped talking since the hospital, which was not helping John get a grasp on things.

"More or less. There are variations, I grant you."

"Variations towards slightly less psychotic. That's generous of you." The girl who had screamed when John walked into the room, trying to claw her way through the wall away from him.

Sherlock glanced at him. "You're angry." 

"Yes, Sherlock, I am. You're really excellent at this detective business, aren't you." John stared fixedly out of the window.

Sherlock shrugged. "Just making an observation." 

"Well done." John snapped his mouth shut. Thoughts, feelings, not quite fully formed, were roiling inside of him, and it would be a bad idea to open his mouth and let them out in whichever form they chose.

Sherlock shifted his legs. There was an illusory, metallic sort of taste in his mouth. That shouldn't be there. Well, it wasn't, of course; that was what illusory meant. That didn't mean it wasn't there for a reason. "I've offended you, somehow."

It wouldn't say inside. It just wouldn't. "Somehow. Somehow. You just have no idea how you might have, do you. It all seems so reasonable and logical to you - your behavior." People didn't matter to Sherlock, and John was just another person to use. John had known this, but the way it had been higlighted to him recently - it was difficult to bear.

"It is," Sherlock answered, automatically. _Stop this, whatever it is. Nip it in the bud. Distract him. Talk about the case._

"Yes, of course. Well, don't worry about me, then. I'm just another one of those illogical creatures you're forced to deal with on a daily basis."

"You're different." _No, not this; the case. Talk about the case._ His fingers tapped at the window. "You know that. I couldn't have solved this one without you."

"Yes, I was somewhat useful, wasn't I?" 

"More than useful. You know more about pharmaceutical companies than I do, which is rather extraordinary."

"Yes, I've had to dispense and take my fair share of drugs."

Sherlock raised an eyebrow. John had also _prevented_ him from taking rather an impressive set of drugs, as well he knew. Best not to raise that point. 

"Not all of them drugs I intended to take, but who cares - it's all in the name of science, eh?"

"Left at the junction," Sherlock told the driver, keen to avoid John's eyes. 

"And it was very _useful_ of me." Oh, just let it go. Sherlock didn't give a damn.

"I just said it was, didn't I?"

"Yes. I should be pleased, shouldn't I, being so _useful_ to you."

Right; he clearly wasn't getting out of this one. "John, please tell me what you mean. Exactly. You're giving me a headache."

"Oh, I'm sorry, I'd hate to give you a headache. But can't you deduce what I'm talking about?"

"I know what you're talking about; I hardly ever know what you're _getting_ at."

"No, you don't, because that would require the barest _modicum_ of empathy and, god forbid, caring about another human being, wouldn't it?"

Sherlock rubbed his forehead. "John..."

John forced his breathing to slow. It was just Sherlock. The man couldn't help it. "What?"

"It's been a very long day."

"Has it? I hadn't noticed."

"You haven't slept in twenty hours."

"Yes, I know that!"

" _So,_ you're not terribly rational."

"Well," John laughed, a strained little bark, "who among us is, compared to the great Sherlock Holmes?"

"If you're going to be like that..."

"Like what, Sherlock? Like a normal person? One of your guinea pigs?"

"What are you talking about?" What John was talking about was, painfully obviously, not the case, but the... the other thing. The _thing_ constantly at the back of Sherlock's brain. And yes, thanks very much, he _had_ noticed the glaringly obvious parallels to this present case, and he had managed to block it almost entirely from his concious mind until this moment - _no_. He had to stop thinking about it. Stay rational. Only that would help. The walls were there for a reason.

"Isn't it so _terrible_ when a sociopath drugs the mentally ill without their consent? Not conscionable. What did you call him?"

"That _is_ what I called him. An unconscionable, sub-human parasite."

"And why did you call him that? Because he was too _amateurish?_ "

"Because he _was_ an unconscionable, sub-human parasite." Sherlock's mouth was dry. The car was driving carefully at the speed limit, give or take a mile per hour, so why did it feel like ten below? 

"But surely not for experimenting on people without their consent. That's _fine_."

"Of course it's not!" Sherlock snapped forward, caught by the safety belt.

"Then why did you do it?" John thought he would shout that, but it came out so quietly. Almost gently. Almost _resigned_. Why did it matter, the details? It had been done.

Sherlock didn't answer. How could he? The question had prodded at the walls of his mind since this afternoon. Before then. Since the Hound. Since Baskerville.

John sighed. Why had he even bothered? Sherlock didn't feel a need to justify himself to anyone. John looked fixedly out of the window again, watching normal people fly past as the cab made its way through London traffic. Simple-minded people. People like him.

"How did you know she was a virgin?"

"I didn't know, I guessed," John mumbled.

"You _knew_."

"It was the way she talked and held herself. Why are you asking? What does it matter?"

"I didn't. It's a blind spot, for me."

"So I'm good for experimental treatments and sniffing out virgins? No wonder you keep me around."

'Sniffing out'. Sherlock shifted, uncomfortable mental images forming.

"It doesn't matter. I just want to sleep." The idea of that upstairs bed was almost sinfully appealing at this point.

"We'll be home in fourteen minutes. As well you know."

"Then I'll have to stay awake for fifteen minutes, won't I."

"At the very least."

"You're not going to get much more."

"You've given me plenty." Wrong phrasing. He would jump on that.

John's hand snapped around to look at Sherlock so quickly he almost tore a tendon. Then he looked back out the window. Why bother. Why bloody well bother.

Sherlock sighed. It'd be a _long_ thirteen minutes.

"I'm not going to the meeting with Lestrade in the morning." 6 AM. John fully intended to be still asleep. He had to put his foot down at something.

"I know you're not."

"Yes, well, I'm telling you!"

"I knew before you told me."

"But I'm bloody well telling you anyway! Just pretend I'm not a cheap tabloid you can read at a glance, would you? For fifteen minutes? Is that so difficult?"

"All right, all right..." _Twelve, now._

John slouched back into the seat of the taxicab. He was on edge, taut as a bowstring. He didn't want to snap.

"We saved eighteen lives today, and you're moping. I don't understand you."

"They weren't going to die." John shifted.

"That isn't what I meant."

"Tell this poor idiot what you did mean, won't you."

"We saved their lives," Sherlock repeated. His jaw clenched on every vowel. "Which is different to making sure they were still living."

"And mine isn't worth saving." Again. It had been simmering around for weeks, now. It was going to come out. John was too tired to keep it in.

"Are we really going to talk about this?"

"No, let's not. Let's sit around and _not_ talk about it for a while. That's worked brilliantly for the last few weeks, hasn't it?"

Sherlock looked at his fingernails. "Has it," he muttered. "That's good, then."

"You scrawny little inhumane arsehole." The words came out of John's mouth of their own volition. He jammed his fist in his mouth to try to stop any more from following them.

The taxi driver, Sherlock noted, was doing an admirable job of pretending like he wasn't interested in what they were saying. Anyone else would not have noticed. Trying to catch him out was something else to focus on, so Sherlock did. They rode on in silence.

John could feel himself seething. Feel it through his body, making his leg ache, making his head hurt with the hot blood. What made it worse is that Sherlock didn't care. He didn't care why John was angry. He didn't care _that_ John was angry. It was just an inconvenince.

"Inhumane," Sherlock said, under his breath.

"Note the root _human_ in there," John murmured in return.

Sherlock picked at a lose thread on his trousers. "Like our good doctor."

"He was insanely misguided, but in the end, he did want to help people with mental problems. He just saw a few right now as being disposable in the grand scheme."

" _He didn't want to help!_ " Sherlock fought to control his pulse. The driver had visibly flinched.

"He said he did." Stupid, all of this. This useless anger.

"A medical health professional, someone who swore an oath to help, willingly and intentionally hurting people. Help? Oh, yes."

"So what makes it so much better when you willingly and intentionally hurt people? Because you didn't take an oath? That's a nice loophole, isn't it?"

Sherlock tore at his hair. He couldn't look in John's direction, now.

"Just... just here then, guv?"

"Yes, this is fine." John opened the door before the cab had come to a complete stop.

John. Leaving. _Leaving_. Sherlock snapped to instant attention, wrenching the opposite door open.

"Oi," yelled the driver, "what about-"

Sherlock threw him a pair of notes, ignoring the enthusiastic thank-yous. He'd meant to short-change the man. Not that it mattered. _He_ didn't matter. He ran after John.

They were still a decent way down the road from the flat, but that was fine. John couldn't breathe in the cab. He sucked in lungfuls of the cold night air, forcing his pace to be normal despite his aching leg. He was just tired. He needed rest.

"I think you're right," Sherlock breathed, barely audible, "we should talk. We should talk about this. Now."

"I'd hate to be any bother," John said, through his teeth.

"You're not a _bother_ \- I don't understand what happened. I know you didn't... something upset you. But I don't understand." John was practically _running._

"It doesn't matter. It's just people." The doorway hove into view.

Sherlock's hand shot out, grabbing John's shoulder, twisting him around.

John's hand whipped out to hit Sherlock's arm as he was spun. "Don't touch me!" he barked.

"Tell me! Tell me what I did wrong!"

"It's not something you did wrong. It's just who you are. Let's go inside, I don't want to stand out on the street like a bickering couple."

"It's not that; you know what I'm like, it's never bothered you before; this is something I did, something specific; TELL ME."

"How on earth can you stand there and chastise that man for doing exactly what you did?" 

" _What did I do?!_ "

"What did you do? What did you do? You don't bloody well remember?"

"It was something in Baskerville, wasn't it? Was it the coffee? I apologized for that; I had to test it on someone who didn't know - I couldn't do it!"

"Oh, so if Dr. Millner had apologized for what he did..."

"Will you stop comparing me to Dr. Millner!"

"Would you stop acting like him!"

"For god's sake, John; I'm not torturing people for fun!"

"So it's fine that you tortured me, because you didn't fully enjoy it."

"Torture-" Sherlock snapped, then shut his mouth abruptly. He looked down at John's leg. His nostrils flared. He took a step back. _Yes. There we go. You realize you can't actually delete things from your memory; the human mind doesn't work like that. Remember how glaring it was to you, when you first saw him? He wore the things he'd seen and done outside his skin; things that howled and clawed and hid in his dark corners. Remind you of anything?_ Sherlock shook his head. 

"What the hell did you think it was?"

"You were fine." He said it bluntly, tasting the obvious lie. He'd known then, too. If he'd stopped. If he'd let himself think about it.

"Well. What's the problem, then?" John spun back around, stalking towards the door. Fine. Sherlock thought he was fine.

"You're not fine." Obviously. All too obviously. He'd shut it off. _Why?_

"You said I am. And you're the world's greatest detective." John fished out his keys.

Sherlock nodded at John's back, pointlessly. 

John threw the door open and stalked up the stairs. Why did he do this? Why did he stay with someone who didn't care about him, who mistreated him just for the fun of it? This was all kinds of wrong.

"John?" He would go straight to his bedroom. They would not talk of this again. _John would leave_.

"Let me go to sleep."

"You won't sleep; you have nightmares." 

"Yes, but that's all part of fine in your book, isn't it?" John walked to the refrigerator and pulled out a beer. He needed something.

 _Helpful_. He'd dull his mind and sleep better, if not healthier; though Sherlock had personally never cared much for the latter. He watched John drink, carefully going through the scenarioes that might happen if he offered John some of his stash of weed. For some reason, that had not been flushed away with the rest, which did go some way towards indicating acceptance. But there were many forms of acceptance.

"What are you staring at?" Why hadn't Sherlock done his normal thing and shut himself back in his bedroom?

"I've got something better than that." It could, he had decided, hardly get worse.

"Better than what?"

" _That_." He nodded at the beer.

"Something new to test on me?"

"You're drinking because you're upset. I know something about that. There are other, more efficient ways to take the edge off."

"Like what?"

"You must know. The stash you keep pretending you don't know I've hidden in my en-suite."

"I gave up marijuana ten years ago."

"I gave up heroin." Sherlock's eyes challenged John, who knew exactly how well that had gone.

"That's what you told me, yes."

"I've also got a 1978 Glenlivet, if you want something _stronger_."

John sighed. It was tempting. He hadn't had an undisturbed night's sleep since... "Fine, give me the pot."

Sherlock, who had been half-way to the liquor cabinet, stopped, and nodded. He would get it himself; no point in showing John where he _really_ hid it. He hurried for it, thinking in orbits around the issue at hand.

John drained his beer, tossing the bottle in the recycling bin. Sleep. The idea was almost sinfully tempting - a full night's sleep, without nightmares.

"Here." Sherlock threw a bag of pre-rolled cigarettes into John's lap. 

"Very nice of you," John muttered, fishing one out and poking around on the kitchen table for matches.

Sherlock shrugged. "I might join you."

"Yea. Ok." John held a match to the end, pulling gently until he drew a lungful of smoke in, and promptly was seized with a fit of hacking coughs. It had been a while.

Sherlock tried not to smile. One of the cigarettes was all tobacco, but the way he'd angled the bag, there was no way John would pick that particular one. Sherlock took that one himself, now. He didn't particularly want to relax, but John would feel better if he thought Sherlock was joining in. 

John stuck his head under the tap and took a healthy swallow of water. "Not used to that," he wheezed, taking a more careful draw.

"Clearly."

John took some more careful pulls. It would take a bit of time to kick in, but a full night's sleep was worth a little coughing.

"Careful..."

"I'm fine."

"It's been a while."

"I want to sleep. I want to have just one night's sleep without having nightmares all the time." It was easy to say these things, now; they slid right off of his tongue.

"It's gotten worse."

"Yes, yes it has." John made his way to the living room and sat in his chair. He didn't feel tired anymore, but he felt _relaxed_.

"And it's my fault." It was almost a question.

"What do you think?" John knew his own mind, after all. Nothing to learn from talking about _him_.

"I don't understand. I want to."

"Well, it's just your brain. You can't help your brain." John felt irritated about it, but also quite relaxed. Why worry about what he couldn't change?

Sherlock kept himself unconspicuously out of John's second hand smoke. "I don't like it when you're upset."

"I don't really believe that, Sherlock. You seem to enjoy it."

"What sort of a monster do you think I am?" He pretended to look around for John's matches. John always found it eerie when Sherlock knew exactly where they were. 

"The sort who drugs his friend without his knowledge. Instead of just _asking_." John tossed the matches towards Sherlock.

Sherlock caught them in one hand, flicking out a match, and lighting it. "Asking would have defied the purpose."

"You didn't know that. It's a hallucinogen. They tend to work whether you know you're taking it or not."

And he wasn't sure if it had been a hallucinogen, but Sherlock knew that tone of voice; it wasn't one to argue with. He sucked on his cigarette, nervously. _Stop thinking about this_.

"I mean, what's more important? Getting your experiment as proper as possible, or treating someone you call your friend like a human being?"

"We were trying to save lives."

John felt his ire rise. "You were trying to solve a puzzle. You were trying to be clever. That's want matters to you."

"I am clever." His palm stung; little tingling pricks of pain. He ignored it, for now.

"You're heartlessly clever." John put the cigarette down, looking at his hand absently, watching the movement of tendons and veins under the skin. Amazing, really. 

"I've never denied that." John was clearly feeling the effects already.

"And where does that leave me. In love with a heartless man." That was an odd choice of words, wasn't it? Well, it was... close enough to the truth. John's brain was moving so quickly, too quickly for him to even keep track of, so smoothly that he hadn't even noticed.

Sherlock choked, painfully.


	2. Chapter 2

"You should drink some water." Very important, that. Sherlock didn't eat enough, but he didn't drink enough water, either. Couldn't be good for the health. And yet he still looked amazing. Well, it would catch up. He was young. John leaned back in his chair, sighing.

"I'm fine." Sherlock was, most emphatically, not. Blood was pooling from his arms and legs and head, going god knew where. He tried to keep his mind blank, but it wasn't used to the idea. Images flashed. John, drunk, asleep on the settee. John, half-naked, throwing a wet newspaper at him and yelling something that didn't matter as much as his state of dress. All the things Sherlock kept carefully separated; freed, now.

"You don't sound fine. But I don't understand you. Never did." That was the problem, wasn't it. One of them, at least.

"You don't love me." That would defeat the point. That, more than anything. The cigarette burned down to his fingers. Sherlock let it.

"Funny, isn't it." It really was. Genuinely funny. John found himself grinning.

Sherlock was about to shake his head, but his balance failed. He felt light-headed, despite having eaten just hours ago. The burning cigarette fell from his fingers.

"That's going to start a fire," John noted, looking at it. He should probably do something about that. But he couldn't be arsed - the chair was just too comfortable.

"Shit!" Sherlock stomped it out, quickly, panting more than the excertion should require. He was sweating.

"You should be more relaxed." Really, John thought, Sherlock hadn't had enough of that cigarette, to be worked up. It was silly to be worked up by things one couldn't change.

"You should be, by now," Sherlock muttered. _Last week, when the power was out; John walking through the front room naked, not seeing Sherlock in his chair in the corner. March 21st, when Sherlock fell asleep against John in the theater and John did not wake him, and Sherlock's clothes smelled of him afterwards. April 19th, when John borrowed his shirt._

"I am. It's quite silly to get upset by things you can't change. But I can't help it. I care too much about things that... aren't the way I want them to be. So I get upset. It's quite silly," John confessed.

"...is this why you borrowed my shirt?" He had not washed it yet. It might have John's DNA on it; little flakes of skin, hair; might still hold his fit. It could be useful. Potentially.

"You burnt a hole in one of mine. I felt like it was some sort of retribution to steal yours. That's quite silly, too."

"Tit for tat." Equivalent retaliation.

"Childish, really. You bring that out of me. I don't like myself like that."

"I don't like what you do to me either." Sherlock sat down on the carpet, crossing his legs. "But I need you."

"You could always find someone else to experiment on."

"I need _you_ ," Sherlock repeated, dumbly. It could slip away so easily. He had to concentrate.

"No, actually, you don't. There are plenty of damaged people about who would be more than happy to be with you." John found himself saying this without bitterness. It was perfectly true. Many of them had written him through the blog, desperate little notes.

"I want you."

"Why? Just because I'm fun to play with?"

Sherlock's lips twitched. He leaned against the side of John's chair. "I'm surprised you haven't figured it out. I thought you had, actually."

"Sherlock, I honestly cannot figure a damn thing about you out."

"You knew that girl was a virgin." He'd forgotten her name already. Not important.

"You'd have figured it out yourself, somehow, if it were important." Sherlock always figured out what he needed to know. By any means necessary.

"So you must know about me." Sherlock looked over, expectantly.

"What? What about you?"

"What I'm like."

"A heartless dick? What?"

Sherlock leaned back again, half-smiling. True, that. Or, perhaps, less true than he'd like. "Well said. I used to think I had neither."

"Neither a heart nor a dick? Surely the latter isn't something you misplace."

"I've never had much use for it."

"Either one, then?"

"But then," certain unseen parts of Sherlock's body shifted as if to underline the point, "you showed up."

It clicked, then, in John's mind. And he couldn't help laughing, almost doubling over in his chair.

"What?" It stung.

"Sherlock, are you worried now that I'm some sort of magic virgin-sniffer, and that I'm judging you on that?"

"No."

Oh. John sobered. But it had made so much sense! It was irritating that it wasn't the case! "Then what are you worried about?"

"I was waiting for you to notice my attraction to you."

"Your what?" John looked down at the smouldering joint. Had he smoked too much?

"You can't be that oblivious."

"Is this a ten-years-old sort of thing, the mentality of throwing rocks at someone you're attracted to?"

"Do ten year olds do that?"

"Maybe a bit younger."

"No one has... affected me like this." He could speak to John, when John was like this. He'd likely discount it tomorrow.

"Well, nobody has bloody well affected me like you have, so cheers." John frowned at his hands.

"Sorry."

"I don't even like men, typically. And then I fall for one who mucks about with my head. It's not right."

"So you _are_ attracted to me."

"Yes, didn't I say that? I was fairly sure I said that." John regarded Sherlock. "Or maybe I just assumed you had deduced it. You really should have."

"I wasn't certain. This is not good." And he was too close. And he shouldn't be telling John any of this. And he shouldn't be feeling this guilt.

"No, its not good. I'm glad you recognize that." It was silly that it stung to hear Sherlock say that - _not good_. But everyone had an ego, after all. John was no different.

"I watched you showering." He wanted to tell John everything. It would help - it had to help. He settled at John's feet, scooting closer. If it didn't help, he would find whatever would. World's bloody greatest detective. Fuck's sake.

"That's more than a bit creepy," John decided.

"I slept in your bed last week."

"That's also quite creepy."

"I get that a lot."

"It's not just that you're doing these strange obsessive things. You're also playing with my brain like it's some sort of cheap, disposable learning instrument."

"I've told you before; I'm not a very nice person." What else could he do to prove that? Why was John still here? Why wasn't he upstairs, packing. _Would you let him?_

"It's... it's beyond 'not a nice person,' Sherlock." Absurd analogies were dancing around the edges of John's brain.

"Explain."

"If you had asked my consent, I would have helped you. Willingly. But you didn't ask."

That hadn't been the point, had it. But Sherlock nodded. He had the sudden impulse to rest his head on John's knee. He didn't.

"It's a bit like rape, really, isn't it?" John leaned his head back, considering.

Sherlock jerked up. "Don't say that."

"Is it wrong?"

"Please don't say that." _No. It isn't wrong._ But he couldn't stop it. Had barely known he'd done it. What sort of a man was he, indeed?

"Tell me it's wrong and why, and I'll stop."

"Why are you still here?" That was the question. Even Sherlock heard the desperation in his own voice. "When I did that to you?"

"I don't know. I haven't even thought about that. That's a bit strange, isn't it."

"I want you too much. That's the problem. I'll hurt you worse than this one day. Can't you see that?"

"Could you really hurt me worse than this?" It did seem the nadir.

"I don't know!"

"Isn't that something you should know?" John was a military man. He knew to prepare for the worst. So why hadn't he been? He - he had to start.

"Please," said Sherlock, not knowing why; not knowing any of this, and that hurt in ways he hadn't been able to imagine. Hurt, and knowing. "Help me know."

"I can't help you, Sherlock - are you mad? It's your brain, not mine."

"You know these things," Sherlock insisted. "You always know what I should have said and done."

"Jesus, don't talk like that! I'm not some sort of... controlling... person... thing. I don't care what you should say or not, just as long as what you say... matches what's in your brain." And that was the problem, really. Their brains.

"That's the problem; it doesn't! Not with you!"

"You never exactly seem to be holding back with me." On anything from clothing choice to girlfriend choice.

"Exactly! And I don't know what I'd do if I... If I let the walls down."

"Well, don't, then. But stop mucking about with my brain. It's the only one I have."

They were down already. That much was certain. Sherlock lay his head down on John's lap. Well, why not, now? It was one thing that couldn't hurt.

"You're in my lap," John noted, startled.

"Your powers of observation have improved beyond measure."

"See? That's the Sherlock I know."

"The Sherlock you know wouldn't be here."

"You're the Sherlock I know. I'm getting more than a bit confused, here."

"That makes two of us." But lying here was restful. Calming, almost.

John's hand was somehow in Sherlock's tangled hair. "This is the part I don't understand. How you do this to me."

"Ditto."

"One of us really should, you know."

"At first I thought it was mere proximity," Sherlock told John's lap. "I've never lived with anyone who wasn't family; most people annoy me. You didn't, so perhaps it's just a matter of contrast. But it's more than that."

"I don't know about that. Not-annoying is one of my better features."

"You're not very good at it."

"I'm better at it than you are."

"Physical attraction."

"What?" John looked down at Sherlock again. Had he spaced out during a sentence or two?

"That's the problem." It wasn't. But it was easier to deal with than the real issues at hand.

"That's not a problem anybody else has found insurmontable when it's come to me."

"Yes, well; you know my opinion of other people."

"So they're lesser than you in their ability to walk away when push comes to shove?" John's head hurt.

"They're idiots," Sherlock corrected him. "I've never felt the need to have another human being touch my naked body - why would I - but here I am."

"You're saying you want me to touch your naked body."

How could he reply to that with his lips so close to the skin of John's thigh? For fuck's sake; there was only fabric between them and it!

"I've never particularly _wanted_ to touch another man's naked body. And I've touched plenty of naked men; I'm a doctor. And it's not like yours is terribly... different. Just a body. It's too skinny. But there's something about the brain inside of it that I can't get away from."

There was cold water in the blood. Good. Sobering, not that Sherlock had needed that. He raised himself, pulling his lapels straight. Ah, the delightful irony of the term. "You have quite a way with words."

John looked up at Sherlock, confused. The man was gone, now, the warmth of his body gone with him. Well, that was all right, wasn't it? That was the way it was supposed to be?

"I half expected as much, to be honest. More idle curiosity than anything else, yes? You like me, god knows why, and you're curious." _How curious?_ Well, there was one way to find out...

"Curious?" What the hell? Curiosity was a Sherlock thing. Idle curiousity about the hopes and dreams and needs of others.

"It's not unusual. After all, you're not gay." Sherlock started with his shirt. Might as well. He picked each button open, carefully.

"No, I'm not." John stared as Sherlock's chest emerged from under his shirt.

"Which leaves curiosity." Or some flavor of non-binary sexuality, but that was far too complicated for John to bother with. A simple man.

"You say I don't have enough." John was staring.

"Not enough in some, too much in others." His shirt fell, still tucked into his trousers.

"I'm too curious when it comes to you?" John's eyeballs weren't doing anything to refute this.

"For your own good, yes."

"Hmm. But you're encouraging it." With a strip-tease, no less.

"If you're curious, there's only one way to cure it." Kill that cat, as it were.

"Indulging it to cure it? That does seem very _you_."

"Once you've seen it all, it'll be boring." Tried it all.

"I've seen you naked." Sherlock was hardly ashamed of his naked body. If anything, he seemed to throw it around like a weapon, daring John to tell him to cover up already, god damn it...

"You've not seen me aroused." He unbuttoned his trousers.

"Fair point." And why was John's mouth running dry at the thought? He was staring a bit lower than Sherlock's chest, now.

"You'll see it, and be done with it, and I'll know your interest has vanished. Problem solved." Had John known he wasn't wearing underpants? Did he care? Probably not. At any rate, he knew now. Sherlock's erection pressed against his stomach when freed, stubbornly.

"Vanished." Somehow, that prediction was failing to happen. So much for the infallible detective.

"Ridiculous, isn't it?"

"No." 'Delectable' was the word that was coming to John's mind. A word that more usually came to mind with labias than penises.

"No?" He raised an eyebrow. "It's not ridiculous that I'm this fucking hard and standing to attention just because you're in the room with me?"

"I don't know. I don't pretend to understand what makes you tick. Maybe you're thinking of dead bodies."

Sherlock flinched. "Don't be revolting."

"Oh, come on. Don't tell me _I'm_ revolting to _you_." John had come across all sorts - both in medical school and in the military. He hadn't known anyone who acted on those desires, but he had certainly had known more than one to guiltily confess it.

"It's not exactly hygienic. Not to mention the damage you'd do, forensically."

"Regular sex isn't hygenic, Sherlock." His brain was giddily scampering down this path, without losing its grip on the arousing sight of Sherlock's naked body. God, his brain.

"To each their own." John was still watching him. _Still interested_.

"But you've never had sex."

"No. Never had the interest before now."

"And I've never had sex with a man." Well, not full-on sex. All of those 'doesn't count' moments flitted disturbingly through John's brain. "So we're even."

"Are you suggesting we have sex?"

"Uh - I mean, wasn't this the whole point of.. what we were... talking about?"

"I wasn't sure how far you wanted to go. I'm game if you are." Could he calm his pulse before John touched him? He was a doctor; some things even _he_ could deduce.

"Game?" The word didn't taste right in John's mouth. It didn't taste like sex with Sherlock.

"I want you. If you want me to be cruder."

"Erm, you being cruder wasn't high on my list of wants."

Sherlock spread his arms. "What am I doing wrong?"

"I don't know. I don't know what we're trying to do. Are we going to have sex? I'm far too attached to you already, so I don't know if that would make it worse or just help us to relax a bit, really." John let his brain swim along to the next thought. "I can't tell what sort of effect it'd have on me until after we'd done it. I might mind, I might not, I might... well, I might wake up your dog singing off-key outside of your window at 2AM..." like with Sandy, when he had lost his virginity to her.

"I don't have a dog."

"No. I was just trying... to draw a parallel."

"This isn't working, is it?"

"No, Sherlock, none of this is working. Not the way we talk, not the way you experiment on me, not the way I just can't _leave_."

"You're aroused. I can tell, you know."

"Yes." John looked down at the obscene bulge in his trousers. "That's not exactly top-class detective work."

"Maybe I should throw you out." Not even Sherlock believed that pathetic lie.

"Maybe I should throw you out. Remember how that punch-up ended?"

"...yes." _Don't show him this; the instant hardening, the thighness in your muscles, the dilated pupils, the even more rapid pulse and the mere thought of him using_ force _\- this is weakness; dangerous._ Nonetheless, Sherlock licked his lips.

"So why shouldn't I stay?" Why shouldn't I stay here, horny, staring at your naked body? "Aren't you cold?"

"Not really." He _was_ doing this all wrong. Something should happen at this point, shouldn't it?

"Come here." What the hell.

Sherlock climbed into his lap. His body had been waiting for this; waiting to take over. He let it. He draped his arms over John's shoulders.

"What have you done before? Oral sex? Kissing?"

"Nothing." He was a little cold, now. He was shivering; he'd have to be.

"Then kiss me. Lips first. Then tongue." This was quite wrong, wasn't it.

"Kiss your... tongue?"

"I'll show you." John grabbed Sherlock's hair, holding the man's head steady while he pressed his lips to Sherlock's.

Who was making that ridiculous keening sound, Sherlock thought - was it _him_? Slowly, deliberately, John eased Sherlock's mouth open with his tongue. His body was taut, tight like a bowstring, ready to snap. That was... different. And mind-bendingly _fantastic_. Sherlock groaned.

John kissed Sherlock slowly, deeply, meticulously. It was important to make an impression on Sherlock, make this _good_. Why? John wasn't quite sure.

There was another person's tongue inside Sherlock's mouth. It should be revolting but it wasn't. That made no _sense_. Sherlock pressed closer against John, sliding deeper into the chair. He felt the hard bulge of John's cock against his own, and tried to gasp. He couldn't.

John was _getting_ to Sherlock. This never happened! He held Sherlock's head more tightly, making it tilt so he could get his tongue in deeper, grabbing Sherlock's hip with his other hand. Sherlock bent to John's hands and will, opening. He stared. John pulled back. "It's generally considered polite to close your eyes."

"Why?"

"Don't ask why. Just trust me."

"I don't want to close my eyes; I want to look at you."

"Too bad. Close them." Why was John being so stubborn on such an unimportant point? He had to have _something_. Some control.

Sherlock frowned. "If I can't see you, it's not..."

"Just close your eyes. You know what I look like."

"That's not the point; I want to record this."

"Record? What are you on about?"

"I want to remember this exactly."

"Why?"

"You're important."

"Because I won't leave." _You really should._

"Do that again. The thing with the tongue."

"Ask nicely."

"Please."

"Maybe in time you'll come to say that more sincerely." John pulled Sherlock's head close, kissing him soundly.

Jesus, _yes_. Sherlock pressed his body close, batting his tongue against John's, spreading his legs. In time, _in time!_ Doing this again, and again; learning, yielding, improving. Bent to John's will. _Yes_. This... this had to be the right thing.

John didn't know what to make of Sherlock being so... into this. Usually, his sexual partners were so simple. If they were into it, do your best to please them, and it made the whole experience fun. But with Sherlock, there was now a question in the back of John's mind. Was this just another experiment? He had to be _careful_. He grasped Sherlock's hips, holding the man down tightly.

Strong grip. Sherlock knew that, but showing it, so evidently, and the _feel_ of it! He groaned, nearly biting John's tongue.

"Easy," John cautioned, then dove back in. Something tickled at the back of his mind. They were very close to sex. Should he? But that would make him vulnerable. Sex, with Sherlock, would be _making love_. He couldn't let Sherlock in that much - could he?

Easy, yes, easy to say! In a moment, it'd all be over, for Sherlock's part. Far, far too exciting, this.

John pulled back, holding Sherlock firmly. He couldn't do this. Couldn't let himself be vulnerable. "Touch yourself."

_No,_ he wanted more! Sherlock reached forward with his lips, his body, even as he took himself in hand.

"Lean back." John bit his lip. He had to be firm. He had to have some bloody self-respect!

Again, Sherlock's body reacted before his brain. He snapped back, the hand on his erection not moving.

"Good. Now touch yourself. Show me what you like."

Quite frankly, Sherlock's adventures in the art of masturbation were usually over pretty quickly. Slake a thirst, scratch an itch; don't go on about it. He hesitated.

"You like to just sit there? I don't believe that for a moment."

"It's all... over rather quickly." _I don't want this to be._

"Then we'll still get some sleep tonight, won't we."

Shelock took his hand away. "This is ridiculous; you're clearly embarrassed. This was silly idea."

"I want to see you come." John set his mouth firmly. There was a difference between embarrassment and shamed vulnerability.

"Don't be obtuse; you're just sitting there, not doing anything. If you really wanted that, you'd do something about it." The hairs on Sherlock's neck were rising. He licked his lips.

John tightened his grips on Sherlock's hips. He'd leave marks. "I'm doing something about it. I'm holding you here and telling you to touch yourself."

Sherlock's cock swelled. It had drooped a little, uncertainly, but now it was leaking and glistening, bumping against John's abdomen. _The right thing_. "Rather passive," he managed, "wouldn't you say?"

"Call it what you want. Touch yourself."

Sherlock snorted and tried to twist out of John's grip, only to find he couldn't.

"Stop squirming," John barked. He was feeling very strange indeed. Wronged. Irritated. Sherlock never gave him anything, only took. John would take this. He was _owed_ it, his oddly clear brain insisted.

"Or what? You're all bark and no bite."

John let go of Sherlock's hip with one hand, twisting his fingers into Sherlock's hair, dragging Sherlock's head backwards as he kept his grip on Sherlock's hip firm. "You don't want to feel my bite," he growled.

"Try me."

Oh, for christ's sake. Was John really going to have to do this? He leaned forward, biting at Sherlock's neck, not gently - fastening his teeth firmly around a skinny little flap of skin.

Sherlock cried out. His throat contracted, like he was trying to swallow an even louder yell; his muscles clenched. He wanted to touch himself now, but he couldn't reach; John's arms were in the way.

John held himself there, feeling Sherlock's yell echo through his own body. Once it ended, he waited a half-second, then pulled back. "See?"

Sherlock couldn't answer. His mouth was open, gasping. Spittle ran from the corner; he licked it off.

"Touch yourself. Or I'll find another place to bite."

That was an easy choice. Sherlock tried his best to look smugly defiant. He did not move.

John twisted Sherlock's head around, making sure the man could still reach his cock. "Touch yourself," John growled in Sherlock's ear, then bit down on the lobe.

"N...no." He wouldn't have to, if John kept this up.

John took a harder grip on the soft flesh of Sherlock's earlobe with his teeth, and _tugged_.

"Ah!" Sherlock fell forward, hands scrambling at John's chest and sides for balance.

John let go, pushing Sherlock back again. He couldn't let the man get close. Not _close_.

Sherlock glared, pushing forward again. Fine. This was a familiar game. He tried to reach John's neck to bite it.

This was not acceptable. Not acceptable, not at all. John gripped Sherlock's neck, his hand wrapping around it, his arm locking to try to keep the man away.

"Stop..." Sherlock tried to twist away, tried to bat at John's stronger, shorter arms, but the angle was wrong. "Stop it," he hissed again.

"Don't touch me," John growled again. He couldn't let Sherlock touch him. Not like a lover, not like _this_ \- it would go all wrong.

"Then let me _go!_ "

Something ugly in John was roiling, bubbling with anger and frustration. He wanted this, and he hated himself for wanting this, and he hated Sherlock for making him want this! He shoved Sherlock off of his lap. " _Fine_."

Sherlock hit the floor jaw first, gasping with pain and surprise. It had been too quick for him to react; John's reflexes were impressive.

"Just... just go away." John pulled into himself, feeling incredibly infantile.

A quick inventory: No teeth broken. Thankfully. No permanent damage to the jaw. Satisfied that he could do so, Sherlock pulled himself up, bit by bit. His elbow had taken quite a beating, too. His earlobe was bleeding.

Was he looking this sad and injured in order to make John feel bad? To tug at his heartstrings? John couldn't trust anything Sherlock said or did, could he. And yet here he was, living with a man he didn't trust, a man who had hurt him. And he was still aroused. How pathetic was that. "Go away," he muttered.

Sherlock had never seen John in this state before; he'd never seen _anyone_ in this state. It shouldn't physically hurt to see other people emotionally upset. There existed no mechanism by which feeling could be transferred. Perhaps he wasn't, then. Perhaps he should go to bed. No. "You can beat me up some more, if you like."

John looked away. "Of course I wouldn't _like_."

"I deserve it."

"I deserve to be left alone!"

Quite. Sherlock surveyed his little scrapes and wounds, noted that they should be washed and dealt with, and went quietly and quickly upstairs to the bathroom.

John buried his face in his hands. Good god, what was he turning into? This wasn't right, not at all. It wasn't good for him, it wasn't good for Sherlock. But he couldn't leave. He couldn't bloody well just up and _leave_!


	3. Chapter 3

The dog was chasing him, again - only it was more real this time. Its red eyes, the saliva dripping off of its fangs and running down its jowls. John ran, ran until his chest was on fire, the snorts and growls of the dog close on his heels - until his feet stepped into _something_ , something thick and sticky, and he fell, and the dog was _there_ , its teeth snapping at John's face. John _punched_ it, hard, and felt bones crack under his fist, and it was Sherlock, looking at him dispassionately, his jaw broken...

John jerked awake, gasping for breath, covered with sweat, and Sherlock was there, staring at him. "What the hell!" he choked.

Someone was seated at the foot of his bed. Pale and bedraggled; _bed-headed_ , that was the term, when describing people. This was a person, no matter how much it made his brain scream of other things. 

Sherlock twitched, too tired to startle properly. "Uh... you were having a nightmare..."

"And I feel like I still am!" John pulled the twisted, sweaty duvet up to his neck, absurdly. Like Sherlock hadn't seen him naked many times.

"I didn't know what to do. It's never been like that before."

"It's been plenty bad, and you haven't sat next to my bed staring at me like a..." Metaphors failed John. Like a slavering, red-eyed dog.

"Sorry." His mind wasn't blank. That was a rare luxury. Rather, it was filled with dull, vague accusations, concepts and ideas. Background noise. The white noise of confusion. Tiring.

"Why sorry? What are you sorry for?" He didn't look sorry. He looked like the ghost of Sherlock future, haunting John.

"Everything." He slumped back, pulling at his robe. "God, all of it. Everything."

"You're upset because I'm not the same John that you brought in to help you _work_." Sherlock had lost his toy. Too bad.

"Yes."

"It's not about _you_. Can't you understand that?" Of course he couldn't.

"I know it's not."

"You're acting like it is."

"I could hear you. Even downstairs. I didn't know what to do."

"Earplugs. They're surprisingly effective." Sherlock still looked like an evil spirit, here to punish John for his sins.

"I did this to you." The knowledge stung.

"Yes. What did you _think_ would happen?? Or is that just what you were _curious_ about?"

"That you'd realize what I am. Who I am. That you'd leave." His head hurt. These were not thoughts that came easily. Hell, these were not thoughts he _wanted_ to come. 

"And I didn't. Why didn't you just ask me to leave, if you wanted me gone?"

"I don't _want_ you gone!" He was shouting, pushing away from the bed, as though physical distance would matter, in any of this. "I want _you!_ Didn't I say that?! It's sick! It's wrong! I want you, and I've no idea how to deal with that, all right?" He was breathing too heavily; like after a sprint. Not even his body was reacting as it should. 

"None of this is all right." None of it made any sense, any sense at all. Except for the bit about Sherlock thinking that wanting John was sick and wrong. That figured. It probably felt like beastiality, to him. Sex with a lower form of life.

"Don't you think I know that! Jesus... I'm incapable of basic human interaction, aren't I?"

"I don't know... Dr Millner was a basic human..."

"And I'm no better than him." A simple statement of truth. No better than a so-called medical man who put his own ego before the wellbeing of others. And didn't that sound familiar? Didn't it fit? Oh, Sherlock; you do enjoy things that _fit!_

"Either you don't care about people, or you don't care specifically about me." John wasn't sure which option bothered him more.

"I'm no good at _talking_ about these things!" Sherlock tore at his hair. Little tufts came away; he was pulling harder than he thought. There didn't seem to be enough force behind it, still. Drugs. Drugs used to help with this. 

"Sherlock, the time to talk is before you do these things, damn it!"

"And I didn't!" 

"I noticed!!"

"Isn't there something I can do that isn't... talking?" His head hurt. 

"You can leave me alone." John tried to untwist himself from the duvet. It was sticky with sweat.

"Fine." He rose, feeling much like an iceberg.

"I'm not a machine, Sherlock. I can't be taken apart and put back together. I stay broken." That was the reality, wasn't it. Broken.  
The process had already been started; Sherlock had just helped it along.

"I know you're not a toy, John."

"You don't act like you know that." The look on Sherlock's face made John angrier. Eyes red, almost moist. It was like he actually cared.

Sherlock pulled the robe closer around himself; it was slipping. "You want me to leave you alone; I'm leaving you alone."

"You're in my room, watching me sleep!"

"Leaving!"

* * *

Past the sea of John's laundry, kicking away shoes and stray newspapers, Sherlock went down the stairs, unto the lounge, and stopped. The familiar post-case ennui was overlaid, now, by a thin film of despair. He looked at the settee, wondering if there would be a point in sitting down.

It was a better option than simply standing there, Sherlock decided. Marginally better. He sat down.

* * *

John flopped on his front, listening to Sherlock leave. He was wide awake; there would be no more sleeping tonight. Even if he had been sleepy, there were nasty things waiting for him on the other side of his eyelids. Best to stay up. Every creak and groan of the old flat sent a shiver up his spine. He should go make some tea, lose himself in the normalcy of the act...

He tried to find a comfortable position; if he wasn't going to sleep, at least he could be... not tangled up in his sheets. But every position found him excessively hot, excessively sweaty, his pillow lumpy and uncooperative. He moaned in frustration.

John sat up. What were his options? He could stay here and be miserable, with the possible option of falling asleep to more nightmares. He could pack his things and leave. He could go have tea, and Sherlock could watch and observe and see more of what made John tick. Well, it wasn't like he hadn't seen plenty already. John clambered out of bed, straightened his pajama bottoms, and lumbered clumsily down the stairs. 

Making his way into the kitchen, he stared at the steaming mug on the counter. "I wanted to make my own," he griped, sullenly.

"So do. I'll have that one." Even that stung. Tea? He was upset by tea, now?

Oh, grow up, John. He picked up the mug. "Thank you," he murmured, seeing Sherlock shrug and pulled his knees up closer to his body. That wetness in his eyes still - fine, tears. Tears in Sherlock's eyes. Bloody hell. John blew on the tea, then sucked in the steam. A knot at the nape of his neck started to unwind from just the scent of it, strong and milky.

Sherlock chewed at his lip. The faint taste of blood spilled into his mouth, but it was still better than talking. How did people in actual relationships manage? 

"I really _should_ leave," John mused, taking a deep, necessary draught of the delicious tea.

"That's what I've been telling you."

"But I can't. And I need to live with that." Take steps. Be proactive. Protect myself.

" _Why_ can't you?" Idiot. Can _you?_

"I don't know." The thought of being without you is simply not bearable.

"I couldn't leave you either."

"I rather doubt that."

"Understandable."

"It is, isn't it." John swallowed a bit too much of the tea. Utterly understandable.

"Do I really seem like a machine?"

John paused, considering. "More like a child than like a machine, maybe. You find it interesting to hurt people, just to learn about them." And who could fault a child for that? They just didn't know any better.

"Jesus, is that what you think?"

"What should I think, Sherlock? What would you think, if you were me?"

"Exactly what you think; I'd be you."

John counted to five as he took another swallow of tea. "I meant, if you were in the same position."

Sherlock looked up. Here... here was an entirely different way to communicate. "I might see that you were trying to express something without having the faintest idea how. Though probably not, mind you; I'm not very good with emotion."

"What are you trying to express?" The idea was ludicrous.

Sherlock looked out the window. "Oh, what's the point."

"There isn't a point. You don't want me to leave. I'm not leaving. You have what you want."

"And you think I want to hurt you. That I enjoy it. Perhaps you even think that's what turns me on."

"Do you enjoy? I wasn't sure that you cared enough to enjoy it. You just.... rationalize it as being unimportant compared to the information you can take from it."

"Of _course_ I don't enjoy it."

"But you do it anyway. Rather than risk doing even a slightly less than ideal experiment."

They had been over this; it was pointless. As pointless as the feeling itself, really. A feeling with no name. Clawing at him. Sherlock curled up closer, folding in on himself.

Another surge of anger. John didn't feel like he could control these things anymore. "Why are you crying? You have no bloody reason to cry! You can hurt me all you want and do your perfect experiments and I'm not leaving, so stop crying!" John was yelling, now. He shut his mouth. It wasn't fair. It was not in the least bit fair for Sherlock to pretend to be the injured party!

Crying? Sherlock felt at his face, dumbly. His hand came away wet. He stared at John.

Something in John clicked. The anger he couldn't control. "What did you put in my tea?"

"Nothing."

"Bullshit," John said, fiercely. That anger, again.

At last - something he could deal with. Sherlock rose, stomped over, took the cup from John's hand and drank deeply. "Nothing."

John frowned at Sherlock. "What if I had asked you to do that with the coffee?"

"I knew you wouldn't." He didn't look John in the eye.

"You counted on that."

"Yes. Not my proudest moment."

"You say that. And yet you never..." Never apologized. Never seemed to understand exactly _why_ what he did had been wrong!

"No, I didn't. I often ignore things I can't handle."

"And keep ignoring them." Can't handle? He did it.

"Indefinitely. Usually." Not now.

"That's a useful skill."

"Usually." He sighed. "I'll leave you to your tea."

"Sherlock, have you the vaguest, faintest thought that what you did might have been wrong? Not from an 'inconveniencing Sherlock' standpoint, but from an 'effect on another human being' standpoint?"

"If I said yes, would you believe me?"

"If the answer is yes, I want you to tell me why."

"You matter."

"That's still all about you. I matter to you, so you don't want to do anything to make me less useful."

Sherlock shook his head, clutching at it. "Stop telling me what I'm thinking!"

"I just want to know. I want to know if you're capable of feeling empathy for another human being!"

Sherlock slapped him. The noise and the adrenaline combined in a shock to his system. He heaved for breath.

John reacted instinctively, unthinkingly, throwing his whole weight behind a punch to Sherlock's jaw.

Sherlock fell backwards, letting himself, landing lightly. He began to rise.

"Don't you touch me!" John barked, stepping forward over Sherlock. Sherlock might be able to fuck with his mind, but John would not let him fuck with his body!

Sherlock shook his head. Not from lack understanding; from lack of any sort of anchor at all. He gave up standing. Might as well sit.

"I might not leave," John growled, "but that doesn't mean I need to just stand there and take this!"

"I know you won't."

"You're going to listen to me from now on. I'm not your toy."

"I know that. I _know_ that."

"You know that now." What a terrible prospect, having to be so guarded, having to always be on his toes, on edge. But what else could he do? The only other option was to leave. And he couldn't do that. Damn him to hell, he loved Sherlock, and he couldn't leave.

"I know," Sherlock repeated, feeling empty.

"Yes." John stepped back, working his cheek. It was surely all in his mind that his cheek still stung...

"Can I do anything?"

"You can sit on the couch and try to act halfway normal." John walked heavily to the kitchen and put the kettle back on.

He could. This was a thing he could do. Sherlock scraped himself off the floor and sat to the sound of boiling water.

John's anger was ebbing, leaving him feeling drained and shaky. He pulled out another teabag, sniffing it and letting it work its magic. "I can help you, you know."

Sherlock's head turned like a hound on the scent. Poor analogy. His mind couldn't stop going there.

"I can show you how to act more like a normal person. Around others." He didn't have to pretend to John. They were past that.

"I know how to do that." He slumped back down again. Not what he wanted. Not what he needed.

"No, you don't. You're not very good at it."

"You're only saying that because you're upset, and because you know me. I've been doing this for years."

"And you've been creeping people out for years."

"Only the ones I don't care about. You've seen what I can do." And I don't do that to you. Please see that. I don't pretend, with you. I don't. _You did_.

"Stop arguing with me, Sherlock."

"If you think I'm doing something wrong, you're quite welcome to point it out. But it's not what I need help with."

"I'm not a therapist, Sherlock." I really should see my own. It's just too much bother, though, setting up an appointment.

"I'm not asking you to be."

"Anything you need help with beyond social appearances is not anything I'm qualified to help with," John clarified.

"How about as a..." Did the word friend still apply? 

"A what?"

"...fellow human being?"

"What the hell else do you think I am?" A toy, of course. A guinea pig.

"Rather than a doctor, I meant!"

"Your heart is just fine, and that's my only specialty."

Sherlock flashed a humorless smile. "If you say so."

"I know it is." God knows it shouldn't be, with how little sleep Sherlock got and how many drugs he had taken.

"Then, between you and the tea, I should be all right."

"Good on you."

"I apologize for the slap. That was uncalled for. You only stated an opinion."

"Don't apologize."

"It was uncalled for."

"Yes, it was. Don't do it again."

"Of course I won't," Sherlock snapped.

"I'll make sure you don't."

Sherlock worried at the floor with a naked toe. He was beginning to feel... Calmer. There was still a dull ache in his chest, but that had been there for a while. "You'll take care of me."

John sighed, turning back to the kitchen, pouring hot water out, dunking in the bag. "Yes." He would be in control if he took care of Sherlock. It would be better for both of them, really.

"I appreciate that." 

"I'm going to do it whether you appreciate it or not." John was  
surprised that he felt no irritation or malice. It was just reality.  
It had to be done, and he would do it.

"That's _why_ I appreciate it."

"Then that's done." John didn't want to talk about it anymore. He  
added milk and sugar to his tea, a tonic of strength and calm.

"I sent the package, by the way."

"What packace?" John took a sip of his tea.

"You know which package. The package! For the girl. She could hardly send it herself."

"What girl?" John asked, with deathly patience. He was used to this, to being the stupid one.

"The one you found locked in the lavatory." That had not been pleasant. None of it had, naturally, but there were degrees. "His first victim, I believe."

John burned his mouth on too large a gulp of tea. "Yes. Her."

"Just to let you know. Lestrade will ask. I'm planning to let him think I took it for a souvernir; he tends to let that slide. I doubt he'd appreciate evidence being sent to the victim's family without police involvement. Not that it would have helped them at all, but they're idiots. I might have some tea, actually." Talking helped, as usual. So, quite often, did tea.

"The - the necklace. You sent it to her sister."

"Well done. I knew you'd get there eventually."

"You don't have to condescend to me." He had sent her the necklace. John couldn't think of a single reason why Sherlock would have done so. Even the degree of irritation to Lestrade would have been very minor. Did he actually care about her?

"I'm counting on you to play dumb about it. Shouldn't be that much of a stretch."

"So you've told me," John said, thoughtfully. Insults were so common now that they rolled off of his back with only minor stings. She had been locked in a small space and subjected to mind-altering drugs, too. Had Sherlock tried, in some way... to atone?

"I've changed my mind about the tea." Sherlock got up. The memory of the girl mixed with the silhuette of John and his mug, and the melange was not altogether a good one.

"Then don't have some." John drank more of his, thoughtfully. If that's really what this was about - well it was kindness, in a way. As sweet as Sherlock was likely to get. It didn't mean, however, that he wouldn't be cruel again in the future. Accidentally cruel.

"That's my intention." _You tasted that man's tongue,_ Sherlock's body informed him, as he brushed past. If he hadn't sabotaged it, how far could it have gone?

John resisted the urge to lean into Sherlock as the man passed by. You're not gay, he reminded himelf. Even if he were, was this really a proper partner? No matter what John felt for him, he still wasn't... wasn't good for John.

_Still interested_. Not surprising, but equally, not good at all. Too tempting. And Sherlock was not in a place where he was happy to resist temptation. "I'll be in my room."

"You usually are." John would be here for a while, in his chair. But Sherlock knew that.

"Might do what you told me to, earlier."

"I told you to do a lot of things, earlier. Some of them probably a little hastily considered."

Interesting. As was the pattern John's line of sight was making, darting here and there, so inconspicuous as to be very conspicuous indeed. "Yes, well. I'm still rather tense. There's one surefire way to relieve it."

"I'm sure you'll think of something." John grasped his mug tightly. The image flashed immediately to his mind, in full HD - Sherlock naked (as he was), erect (as he was), his hand on that cock, the look of bliss on his face...

Sherlock smirked. "You know where to find me." He turned, walking quickly. 

John sipped at his tea. This was an offer. This was a... an experiment, a test, a poorly controlled study of Sherlockian origin. This was not what John needed in his life. This was a different sort of test. This was a test of whether John could stay properly detatched and safe. He drained his tea, put the mug aside, and followed.


End file.
